QTDECTRA 


O 


New    roetns 


EMANUEL  MOK&AN 
ANNE  KNISH 


UNIVERSITY  FARM 


1/5 
S7 


LIBRARY 

UMIVEKSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA 
DAVIS 


SPECTRA 


SPECTRA 

A  BOOK  OF  POETIC  EXPERIMENTS 
BY 

&&A^^-<r^i 
AND 

EMANUEL  MORGAN 


:GEO 


NEW  YORK 

MITCHELL  KENNERLEY 
1916 


LIBRARY 


COPYRIGHT  1916  BY 
MITCHELL  KENNERLEY 


PRINTED  IN  AMERICA 


CONTENTS 

PAGE 

TO  REMY  DE  GOURMONT    (EMANUEL  MORGAN)  vii 

PREFACE  (ANNE  KNISH)  ix 

SPECTRA  BY  EMANUEL  MORGAN 

OPUS  PAGE 

1  DRUMS  S3 

2  HOPE  14 

6  IF  I  WERE  ONLY  DAFTER  56 

7  A  BUNCH  OF  GRAPES  8 
9    FROGS'  LEGS  ON  A  PLATE  57 

13  A  PEACOCK-FEATHER  II 

14  I  HAD  PUT  OUT  MY  LEAVES  51 

15  DESPAIR  COMES  6 

16  THE    GUILLOTINE  2O 

17  NEEDLES    AND  PINS  46 
29      KNIVES  31 
31      THANK  GOD  THAT  WE  CAN  LAUGH  27 

40  TWO   COCKTAILS   ROUND  A   SMILE  35 

41  SPECTRES  2 

45  THE  LOCUST-TREE  49 

46  NO  OTHER  ANGLE  4O 

47  GIVER  OF  BRIBES  IN  THE  BRIGHTNESS  OF  MORNING            37 
55      THE    IMPOSSIBLE  43 

62  THREE    LITTLE    CREATURES  l6 

63  SPEARS  23 

78  I  AM  BESET  63 

79  ONLY   LOVERS  66 
101      THE    PIANO  6l 
IO4      MADAGASCAR  59 

V 


vi  CONTENTS 


SPECTRA  BY  ANNE  KNISH 

OPUS 

PAGE 

I 

THE    SECONDS    BOB    BY 

41 

40 

I   HAVE   NOT   WRITTEN  —  THAT  YOU    MAY  READ 

26 

50 

THE  PIANO  LIVES  IN  A  DUSK    ' 

I 

67 

I   WOULD   NOT  IN  THE  EARLY   MORNING 

10 

76 

YEARS   ARE   NOTHING 

4 

80 

OH,   MY  LITTLE   HOUSE  OF  GLASS 

52 

88 

SO   WE  CAME  BACK  AGAIN 

36 

96 

YOU  ARE  THE  DELPHIC  ORACLE 

33 

118 

IF    BATHING    WERE    A    VIRTUE 

7 

122 

UPSTAIRS   THERE  LIES   A    SODDEN   THING 

39 

126 

HIS    EYES 

12 

131 

I  AM  WEARY 

18 

134 

LISTEN,    MY   FRIEND 

21 

135 

IN  A  TOMB  OF  ARGOLIS 

64 

150 

SOUNDS 

29 

151 

CANDLE,  CANDLE 

15 

181 

SKEPTICAL    CAT 

62 

182 

HE'S   THE   REMNANT  OF  A   SUIT 

60 

187 

I  BO   NOT   KNOW  VERY    MUCH 

58 

191 

THE  BLACK  BARK  OF  A  DOG 

48 

195 

HER   SOUL   WAS   FRECKLED 

55 

200 

IF  I  SHOULD  ENTER  TO   HIS  CHAMBER 

45 

TO  REMY  DE  GOURMONT 

POET,  a  wreath ! — 

No  matter  how  we  had  combined  our  flowers, 
You  would  have  worn  them — being  ours.  .  .  . 
On  you,  on  them,  the  showers — 

O  roots  beneath ! 

EMANUEL  MORGAN. 


vii 


PREFACE 

THIS  volume  is  the  first  compilation  of  the 
recent  experiments  in  Spectra.  It  is  the 
aim  of  the  Spectric  group  to  push  the  possibili 
ties  of  poetic  expression  into  a  new  region, — 
to  attain  a  fresh  brilliance  of  impression  by  a 
method  not  so  wholly  different  from  the  meth 
ods  of  Futurist  Painting. 

An  explanation  of  the  term  "Spectric"  will 
indicate  something  of  the  nature  of  the  tech 
nique  which  it  describes.  "Spectric"  has,  in 
this  connection,  three  separate  but  closely  re 
lated  meanings.  In  the  first  place,  it  speaks, 
to  the  mind,  of  that  process  of  diffraction  by 
which  are  disarticulated  the  several  colored  and 
other  rays  of  which  light  is  composed.  It  in 
dicates  our  feeling  that  the  theme  of  a  poem 
is  to  be  regarded  as  a  prism,  upon  which  the 
colorless  white  light  of  infinite  existence  falls 
and  is  broken  up  into  glowing,  beautiful,  and 
intelligible  hues.  In  its  second  sense,  the  term 
Spectric  relates  to  the  reflex  vibrations  of  physi 
cal  sight,  and  suggests  the  luminous  appearance 


PREFACE 


which  is  seen  after  exposure  of  the  eye  to  in 
tense  light,  and,  by  analogy,  the  after-colors  of 
the  poet's  initial  vision.  In  its  third  sense,  Spec- 
trie  connotes  the  overtones,  adumbrations,  or 
spectres  which  for  the  poet  haunt  all  objects 
both  of  the  seen  and  the  unseen  world, — those 
shadowy  projections,  sometimes  grotesque, 
which,  hovering  around  the  real,  give  to  the  real 
its  full  ideal  significance  and  its  poetic  worth. 
These  spectres  are  the  manifold  spell  and  true 
essence  of  objects, — like  the  magic  that  would 
inevitably  encircle  a  mirror  from  the  hand  of 
Helen  of  Troy. 

Just  as  the  colors  of  the  rainbow  recombine 
into  a  white  light, — just  as  the  reflex  of  the 
eye's  picture  vividly  haunts  sleep, — just  as  the 
ghosts  which  surround  reality  are  the  vital  part 
of  that  existence, — so  may  the  Spectric  vision, 
if  successful,  synthesize,  prolong,  and  at  the 
same  time  multiply  the  emotional  images  of  the 
reader.  The  rays  which  the  poet  has  dissoci 
ated  into  colorful  beauty  should  recombine  in 
the  reader's  brain  into  a  new  intensity  of  unified 
brilliance.  The  reflex  of  the  poet's  sight  should 
sustain  the  original  perception  with  a  haunting 
keenness.  The  insubstantiality  of  the  poet's 
spectres  should  touch  with  a  tremulous  vibrancy 


PREFACE  xi 


of  ultimate  fact  the  reader's  sense  of  the  im 
mediate  theme. 

If  the  Spectrist  wishes  to  describe  a  land 
scape,  he  will  not  attempt  a  map,  but  will  put 
down  those  winged  emotions,  those  fantastic 
analogies,  which  the  real  scene  awakens  in  his 
own  mind.  In  practice  this  will  be  found  to  be 
the  vividest  of  all  modes  of  communication,  as 
the  touch  of  hands  quickens  a  mere  exchange 
of  names. 

It  may  be  noted  that  to  Spectra,  to  these  re 
flected  experiences  of  life,  as  we  perceive  them, 
adheres  often  a  tinge  of  humor.  Occidental 
art,  in  contrast  to  art  in  the  Orient,  has  until 
lately  been  afraid  of  the  flash  of  humor  in  its 
serious  works.  But  a  growing  acquaintance 
with  Chinese  painting  is  surely  liberating  in 
our  poets  and  painters  a  happy  sense  of  the 
disproportion  of  man  to  his  assumed  place 
in  the  universe,  a  sense  of  the  tortuous  grotesque 
vanity  of  the  individual.  By  this  weapon,  man 
helps  defend  his  intuition  of  the  Absolute  and 
of  his  own  obscure  but  real  relation  to  it. 

The  Spectric  method  is  as  yet  in  its  infancy; 
and  the  poems  that  follow  are  only  experimental 
efforts  toward  the  desired  end.  Among  them, 
the  most  obvious  illustrations  of  the  method 


xii  PREFACE 


are  perhaps  Opus  41  by  Emanuel  Morgan  and 
Opus  76  by  Anne  Knish. 

Emanuel  Morgan,  with  whom  the  Spectric 
theory  originated,  has  found  the  best  expres 
sion  of  his  genius  in  regular  metrical  forms  and 
rhyme.  Anne  Knish,  on  the  other  hand,  has 
used  only  free  verse.  We  wish  to  make  it  clear 
that  the  Spectric  manner  does  not  necessitate 
the  employment  of  either  of  these  metrical  sys 
tems  to  the  exclusion  of  the  other. 

Although  the  members  of  our  group  would  by 
no  means  attempt  to  establish  a  claim  as  actual 
inventors  of  the  Spectric  method,  yet  we  can 
justifiably  say  that  we  have  for  the  first  time 
used  the  method  consciously  and  consistently, 
and  formulated  its  possibilities  by  means  of 
elaborate  experiment.  Among  recent  poets  in 
English,  we  have  noted  few  who  can  be  re 
garded  in  a  sure  sense  as  Spectrists. 

ANNE  KNISH. 


SPECTRA 

ANNE  KNISH 
Opus  50 

THE  piano  lives  in  a  dusk 
Where  rich  amber  lights 
Quiver  obscurely. 

It  exists  only  at  twilight; 
And  somewhere  afar 
In  the  depths  of  a  tropic  forest 
The  sun  is  now  setting,  and  the  phoenix  looks 
Mysteriously  toward  the  gold. 

.  I  think  I  must  have  been  born  in  such  a  forest, 
Or  in  the  tangle  of  a  Chinese  screen. 

There  is  indigo  in  this  music ; 
This  dusk  is  filled  with  amber  lights; 
Through  the  tangled  evening  of  heavy  flower- 
scents 

Come  footfalls 
That  surely  I  can  almost  remember. 


SPECTRA 


EMANUEL  MORGAN 
Opus  41 

SPECTRES  came  dancing  up  the  wind, 
Trailing  down  the  long  grass, 
Shooting  high,  undisciplined, 

To  join  the  sun  and  see  you  pass  .   .   . 
The  colors  of  the  pointed  glass. 

Under  a  willow-maze  you  went 

Unsaddened  .   .   .  But  a  violet  beam 

Fell  on  the  white  face,  backward  bent, 
Of  a  body  in  a  stream. 

Into  the  sun  you  came  again, 

With  sun-red  light  your  feet  were  shod  .  . 
And  round  you  stood  a  ring  of  feathered  men 

With  naked  arms  acknowledging  a  god. 

Indigo-birds  and  squirrels  on  a  tree 
And  orioles  flashed  in  and  out  .   .   . 

The  yellow  outline  of  Eurydice 

Waited  for  Orpheus  in  a  black  redoubt. 


SPECTRA 


With  a  beaded  fern  you  waved  away  a  gnat . .  . 

And   maidens,    hung   with    vivid   beads    of 

green, 
One  of  them  bearing  in  her  arms  an  orange  cat, 

Held  palms  about  a  queen. 

Then  you  were  lost  to  sight 

And  locking  trees  became  the  clouds  of  you, 
Till  you  emerged,  the  moon  upon  your  shoulder, 
and  the  night 

Bloomed  blue. 


SPECTRA 


ANNE  KNISH 
Opus  76 


are  nothing; 
Days  alone  count; 
These,  and  the  nights. 
I  have  seen  the  grey  stars  marching, 
And  the  green  bubbles  in  wine, 
And  there  are  Gothic  vaults  of  sleep. 

My  cathedral 
Has  one  great  spire 
Tawny  in  the  sunlight. 
Gargoyles  haunt  its  nave; 
High  up  amid  its  dark  arches 
Forgotten  songs  live  shadowy. 
Gold  and  sardonyx 
Deck  its  altars. 
Its  mighty  roof 
Is  copper  rivering  with  the  rain. 

Tomorrow  lightning  swords  will  come 
And  thunder  of  cannon. 
They  will  unrivet  this  roof 


SPECTRA 


Of  mighty  copper. 

Before  the  eyes  of  my  gargoyles, 

In  the  sound  of  my  forgotten  songs, 

They  will  take  it. 

And  as  the  rain  sluices  down 

I  shall  have  to  follow  my  roof  into  the  war. 


SPECTRA 


EMANUEL  MORGAN 

Opus  15 

DESPAIR  comes  when  all  comedy 
Is  tame 
And  there  is  left  no  tragedy 

In  any  name, 
When  the  round  and  wounded  breathing 

Of  love  upon  the  breast 
Is  not  so  glad  a  sheathing 
As  an  old  brown  vest. 

Asparagus  is  feathery  and  tall, 

And  the  hose  lies  rotting  by  the  garden-wall. 


SPECTRA 


ANNE  KNISH 
Opus  118 

F  bathing  were  a  virtue,  not  a  lust, 
I  would  be  dirtiest. 


I 


To  some,  housecleaning  is  a  holy  rite. 
For  myself,  houses  would  be  empty 
But  for  the  golden  motes  dancing  in  sunbeams. 

Tax-assessors  frequently  overlook  valuables. 
Today  they  noted  my  jade. 
But  my  memory  of  you  escaped  them. 


SPECTRA 


EMANUEL  MORGAN 
Opus  7 

BEYOND  her  lips  in  the  dark  are  a  man's 
feet 

Composed  and  dead  .   .   . 
In   the  light  between   her  lips  is   a   moving 

tongue-tip  sweet, 
Red. 

Her  arms  are  his  white  robes, 

They  cover  a  king, 
His  ornaments  her  crescent  lobes 

And  two  moons  on  a  string. 

Sheba,  Sheba,  Proserpina,  Salome, 

See,  I  am  cornel — king,  god,  saint  I — 
With  the  stone  of  a  volcano  O  show  that  you 

know  me, 

Pound  till  the  true  blood  pricks  through  the 
paint! 

Twitch  of  the  dead  man's  feet  if  he  remembers 
A    bunch    of    grapes    and    a    ripped-open 
gown. — 


SPECTRA 


And  the  live  man's  eyes  are  night  after  embers, 
Two  black  spots  on  a  white-faced  clown  .  .  . 

And  in  the  dawn,  lava  .  .  .  rolling  down  .  .  . 
Down-rolling  lava  on  an  up-pointing  town. 


io  SPECTRA 


ANNE  KNISH 
Opus  67 

I  WOULD  not  in  the  early  morning 
Start  my  mind  on  its  inevitable  journey 
Toward  the  East. 
There  are  white  domes  somewhere 
Under  that  blue  enameled  sky,  white  domes, 

white  domes; 
Therefore  even  the  cream 
Is  safest  yellow. 
Cream  is  better  than  lemon 
In  tea  at  breakfast. 
I  think  of  tigers  as  eating  lemons. 
Thank  God  this  tea   comes   from   the  green 

grocer, 
Not  from  Ceylon. 


SPECTRA  ii 


EMANUEL  MORGAN 
Opus  15 

O  PEACOCK-FEATHER 
Drawn  through  a  death-dim  hole, 
With  colors  blurred  together, 
Persian  pattern  of  a  soul — 

Is  it  enough  to  have  belonged 
To  the  exaltation  of  a  bird 

Round  whom  they  thronged 
Each  time  her  high  tail  stirred? 

...  I  loved  a  woman  whose  two  eyes, 
One  blue,  one  gray, 

Would  block 

Like  cliffs  my  foothold  in  the  skies  .  . 
She  is  dead,  they  say — 
Dead  as  a  peacock. 


12  SPECTRA 


ANNE  KNISH 
Opus  126 

HIS  eyes 
Are  the  resurrection. 
Once  when  beneath  the  moonrise 
They  looked  into  mine, 
Grey  mists  held  mastery  between  us, 
And  I  knew  that  his  soul 
Had  gone  down  into  death. 
But  tonight  a  golden  star-dust 
Is  pouring  through  space, 
And  the  mist  is  burned  away  by  it. 
Tonight  his  soul  awakens 
Out  of  its  splendid  cerements, 
And  through  his  eyes  the  miracle 
Arises  to  the  earth. 

I  have  prayed  long  beside  the  tomb 
And  touched  the  grave-cloths 
With  living  fingers. 
I  have  lain  my  breasts 
Against  the  granite 


SPECTRA 


Of  the  sarcophagus 

Where  he  was. 

Prayers  for  the  dead  I  offered  up 

And  hecatombs. 

Today  there  was  a  wonder  in  the  sunrise. 
I  knew  that  there  were  glories  in  the  sky 
And  new  branches  of  willow  on  the  earth. 
And  my  soul  trembled  with  prophecy. 

I  prophesied 
The  resurrection. 
Now  it  has  come. 
And  I  lie  shaken 
Before  its  tumult. 


14  SPECTRA 


EMANUEL  MORGAN 

OpUS   2 

HOPE 
Is  the  antelope 
Over  the  hills; 
Fear 

Is  the  wounded  deer 
Bleeding  in  rills; 
Care 

Is  the  heavy  bear 
Tearing  at  meat; 
Fun 

Is  the  mastodon 
Vanished  complete  .    .   . 

And  I  am  the  stag  with  the  golden  horn 
Waiting  till  my  day  is  born. 


SPECTRA  15 


ANNE  KNISH 
Opus  151 

/HANDLE,  candle, 
V>j     Flicker  and  flow — 
I  knew  you  once — 

But  it  was  not  long  ago, 

it  was 

Last  night. 

And  you  spoiled  my  otherwise  bright 

evening. 


16  SPECTRA 


EMANUEL  MORGAN 

Opus  62 

THREE  little  creatures  gloomed  across  the 
floor 

And  stood  profound  in  front  of  me, 
And  one  was  Faith,  and  one  was  Hope, 
And  one  was  Charity. 

Faith  looked  for  what  it  could  not  find, 

Hope  looked  for  what  was  lost, 
(Love  looked  and  looked  but  Love  was  blind) , 

Charity's  eyes  were  crossed. 

Then  with  a  leap  a  single  shape, 

With  beauty  on  its  chin, 
Brandished  a  little  screaming  ape  .  .  . 

And  each  one,  like  a  pin, 

Fell  to  a  pattern  on  the  rug 

As  flat  as  they  could  be — 
And  died  there  comfortable  and  snug, 

Faith,  Hope  and  Charity. 


SPECTRA  17 


That  shape,  it  was  my  shining  soul 
Bludgeoning  every  sham  .   .   . 

O  little  ape,  be  glad  that  I 
Can  be  the  thing  I  am ! 


SPECTRA 


ANNE  KNISH 
Opus  131 

1AM  weary  of  salmon  dawns 
And  of  cinnamon  sunsets ; 
Silver-grey  and  iron-grey 
Of  winter  dusk  and  morn 
Torture  me ;  and  in  the  amethystine  shadows 
Of  snow,  and  in  the  mauve  of  curving  clouds 
Some  poison  has  dwelling. 

Ivory  on  a  fan  of  Venice, 
Black-pearl  of  a  bowl  of  Japan, 
Prismatic  lustres  of  Phoenician  glass, 
Fawn-tinged  embroideries  from  looms  of 

Bagdad, 

The  green  of  ancient  bronze,  cinereous  tinge 
Of  iron  gods, — 

These,  and  the  saffron  of  old  cerements, 
Violet  wine, 
Zebra-striped  onyx, 

Are  to  me  like  the  narrow  walls  of  home 
To  the  land-locked  sailor. 


SPECTRA  19 


I  must  have  fire-brands  I 
I  must  have  leaves ! 
I  must  have  sea-deeps! 


20  SPECTRA 


EMANUEL  MORGAN 

Opus  1 6 

DEATH  on  a  cross  was  not  the  blade 
In  Mary's  heart  .  .  . 
For  the  mother  of  man  and  the  son  of  the  maid 

Had  walked  one  night  apart, 
When   his   beard   was   not   yet   grown — and, 

afraid, 
She  had  seen  his  young  words  dart. 

Between  a  mother  and  a  son, 

The  guillotine  .   .   . 
It  falls,  it  falls,  and  one  by  one, 

Unseeing  and  unseen, 
They  face  the  great  sharp  shining  ton 

That  time  has  eaten  green. 

Between  the  shoulder  and  the  head 

The  guillotine  must  play 
And  cleave  with  clash  unmerited 

The  generating  clay  .  .  . 
Till  the  separated  parts,  not  dead, 

Rise  and  walk  away. 


SPECTRA  2i 


ANNE  KNISH 
Opus  134. 

ISTEN,  my  friend, 

That  you  may  understand  me, 

In  my  earliest  youth 
I  dreamed  in  hues  volcanic. 
I  saw  each  day  open 
Like  a  curtain  of  flame. 
Black  slaves  attended 
My  waking  moments; 
Three  ebony  slaves 
Washed  sleep  from  my  white  body. 
Three  ebony  slaves 
Around  my  ivory  smoothness 
Folded  heavy  robes 
Of  crimson  and  white. 
And  as  I  issued  forth 
Into  the  blue  vault  of  the  daylight 
A  grey  ape  pranced  before  me 
And  a  leopard  crept  behind. 


22  SPECTRA 


This  was  the  state 
Of  my  young  heritage. 
Scarlet  as  the  voice  of  trumpets 
Was  the  pageant  of  my  days. 
Can  I  accept  now 
The  twilight? 

And  soon  the  dark,  where  all  colors 
Die? 

Before  I  die,  I  will  hold  one  last  revel! 
I  will  have  golden  cups  and  poppy  curtains! — 
And  yet — 

No!  ...  In  a  black  hall 
The  black  table  shall  spread  far  down  before 

me 

And  all  the  feasters  garbed  in  black. 
Then,  at  the  feast's  height,  I  arising 
Shall  with  a  gesture  like  the  midnight 
Throw  back  my  midnight  robe  and  suddenly 

stand 
Naked,  the  sole  white  flame  of  the  world. 


SPECTRA  23 


EMANUEL  MORGAN 
Opus  63 

THE  seven  deathly  spears  of  memory 
Setting  behind  a  god,  a  golden  glorious 
Halo  of  land  and  sea 
Even  for  you  and  me, 
Even  for  us  ... 

The  spear  of  Egypt, 
Orange, 

Through  the  sleeping  lid, 
With  all  the  power  of  the  bulk  of  a  pyramid. 

The  spear  of  Chile, 
Yellow, 

Through  the  thrilling  cheek, 
With  all  the  push  of  an  upturned  Andean  peak* 

The  spear  of  Thibet, 
Violet, 

Through  the  eager  hand, 
The  thrust  of  the  iron  of  a  silent  land. 


24  SPECTRA 


The  spear  of  the  Ice-Poles, 
Green, 

Through  the  warm-breathing  breast, 
The  glacial  east  and  the  glacial  west. 

The  spear  of  Norway, 
Blue, 

Through  the  curved  arm-pit, 
The  cheerless  sun  majestic  in  a  jagged  slit. 

The  spear  of  India, 
Indigo, 

Through  the  holy  side, 

A  heaven-touching  temple-roof  down  a  moun 
tain-slide. 

The  spear  of  Europe, 
Red, 

In  the  mouth's  breath, 
The  million-splintering  scream  of  death  .    .    . 

Even  to  us, 

The  seven-spearing  sun, 

The  sword  of  separation  before  our  love  is 
done; 

Even  for  us, 
A  simian  shape 


SPECTRA  25 


Throwing  seven  souls  on  the  sea-wet  cape ; 

Even  for  us 

Who  smile  mouth  to  mouth, 
The  full  tornado  from  the  seven- forked  south; 

Even  to  us 

Who  clasp  with  our  knees, 
The  scattering  upheaval  of  the  seven  cold  seas  1 

And  this  is  as  near  as  lovers  ever  come, 
Their  words  are  dumb ; 
This  is  as  near  as  they  have  ever  kissed, 
Their  lips  are  ocean-mist. 

Yet  what  avail  the  seven 
Spears  of  memory 
Against  the  obstinate  archery 
Of  light,  the  spears  of  heaven? 


26  SPECTRA 


ANNE  KNISH 
Opus  40 

I  HAVE  not  written,  reader, 
That  you  may  read.  .  .  . 
They  sit  in  rows  in  the  bare  school-room 
Reading. 

Throwing  rocks  at  windows  is  better, 
And  oh  the  tortoise-shell  cat  with  the  can  tied 

on! 

I  would  rather  be  a  can-tier 
Than  a  writer  for  readers. 

I  have  written,  reader, 
For  abstruse  reasons. 
Gold  in  the  mine  .   .  . 
Black  water  seeping  into  tunnels  .   .  . 
A  plank  breaks,  and  the  roof  falls  .  .  . 
Three  men  suffocated. 
The  wife  of  one  now  works  in  a  laundry; 
The  wife  of  another  has  married  a  fat  man; 
I  forget  about  the  third. 


SPECTRA  27 


EMANUEL  MORGAN 

Opus  57 

THE  night  is  growing  deep  with  snow 
O  put  your  hand  in  mine, 
While  the  mirthful  secrets  that  we  know 

Bloom  in  the  fire-shine — 
Flakes  falling  with  an  undertow 
Of  delicate  design. 

Hushed  are  the  courts  where  ladies  went 

Unquestioning  to  quaff 
Goblets  of  liquid  firmament — 

Thank  God  that  we  can  laugh ! 

Hushed  are  the  plains  where  Asia  poured 
The  blood  of  peacock  kings — 

But  we  can  echo,  thank  the  Lord, 
What  the  China  teapot  sings : 

Nothing  bereaves 
The  eternal  tune 
Of  little  crisp  leaves 
Green  in  the  moon. 


28  SPECTRA 


The  night  is  deeper  still  with  snow  .  .  . 

O  let  us  never  stir 
From  the  mirthful  secrets  that  we  know 

Of  old  diameter! 
Eve  laughed  at  Adam  long  ago, 

And  Adam  laughed  at  her. 


SPECTRA  29 


ANNE  KNISH 
Opus  750 

SOUNDS,  pure  sounds — 
Nothing — 

Vibrancies  of  the  air — 
And  yet — 

This  summer  night 
There  are  crickets  shrilling 
Beyond  the  deep  bassoon  of  frogs. 
They  cease  for  a  moment 
As  the  rattling  clangor 
Of  the  trolley 
Bumps  by. 
I  hear  footsteps 
Hollow  on  the  pavement 
Now  deserted 
And  blank  of  sound. 
They  die. 

The  crickets  now  are  sleeping; 
Even  the  leaves 
Grow  still. 


30  SPECTRA 


And  slowly 

Out  of  the  blankness,  out  of  the  silence, 
Emerges  on  soundless  wings 
The  long  sweet-sloping 
Rise  and  fall  of  far  viol  notes, — 
The  mad  Nirvana, 
The  faint  and  spectral 
Dream-music 
Of  my  heart's  desire. 


SPECTRA  31 


EMANUEL  MORGAN 
Opus  29 

KNIVES  for  feet,  and  wheels  for  a  chin, 
And  the  long  smooth  iron  bore  for  a 

neck, 

And  bullets  for  hands.  . .  .  And  the  root  runs  in, 
The  root  of  blood  no  stone  can  check, 
From  the  breasts  of  the  grinding  crash  of  sin, 
From  engines  hugging  in  a  wreck. 

A  thousand  round-red  mouths  of  pain 

Blaring  black, 

A  twisting  comrade  on  his  back 

In  a  round-red  stain, 

Clotted  stalks  of  red  sumac, 

Discs  of  the  sun  on  a  bayonet-stack  .  .   . 

Blood,  flame,  a  cataract 
Thrown  upward  from  a  desert  place : 
Flame  and  blood,  the  one  blind  fact, 
Contained,  or  spouting  from  the  face, 
Or  coiling  out  of  bellies,  packed 
In  a  stinking  spent  embrace  .   .   . 


32  SPECTRA 


Country,  a  babble  of  black  spume  .   .   . 
Faith,  an  eyeball  in  the  sand  .    .    . 
Mother,  a  nail  through  a  broken  hand — 
A  kissing  fume — 

And  out  of  her  breast  the  bloody  bubbling  milk- 
red  breath 
Of  death. 


SPECTRA  33 


ANNE  KNISH 
Opus  g6 

'OU  are  the  Delphic  Oracle 
Of  the  Under-World. 

As  we  sit  talking, 
All  of  us  together, 
You  flash  forth  sudden  utterance 
Of  buried  things 
That  writhe  in  obscure  life 
Within  our  minds'  last  darkness. 
That  which  we  think  and  say  not 
You  say  and  think  not. 
In  us  these  thoughts 
Like  worms  stir  vilely. 

But  from  you  they  depart  as  sudden  butterflies 
Crimson  and  green  against  the  pure  sky. 

Many  are  the  revelers; 
Few  are  the  thyrsus-bearers; 
And  sole  is  Dionysus. 


34  SPECTRA 


This  I  inscribe  to  you, 
Singer, 

In  memory  of  the  crags  of  Delphi 
And  the  Thessalian  vales  beyond. 


SPECTRA  35 


EMANUEL  MORGAN 
Opus  40 

TWO  cocktails  round  a  smile, 
A  grapefruit  after  grace, 
Flowers  in  an  aisle 

.   .    .  Were  your  face. 

A  strap  in  a  street-car, 
A  sea-fan  on  the  sand, 

A  beer  on  a  bar 

.   .   .  Were  your  hand. 

The  pillar  of  a  porch, 
The  tapering  of  an  egg, 

The  pine  of  a  torch 

.   .  .  Were  your  leg. — 

Sun  on  the  Hellespont, 

White  swimmers  in  the  bowl 

Of  the  baptismal  font 
Are  your  soul. 


36  SPECTRA 


ANNE  KNISH 
Opus  88 

SO  we  came  back  again 
After  some  years — 
Just  revisiting 
The  scenes  of  our  sin. 
Nothing  is  there  but  the  garden; 
And  we  had  expected 
That  we  would  be  there. 

I  heard  a  wind  blowing 
Down  the  sky. 
It  came  with  heavy  auguries 
And  passed. 

There  was  a  soothsayer  once  in  Rome 
Who  on  a  white  altar 
Inspected  the  purple  entrails  of  victims, 


SPECTRA  37 


EMANUEL  MORGAN 

Opus  47 

GIVER    of   bribes    in   the    brightness    of 
morning, 
Cities    have   wavered   and   rocked   and   gone 

down  .   .   . 
But  the  lamps  of  the  altars  hang  round  you, 

adorning 

The  niche  of  your  neck  and  the  drift  of  your 
gown. 

O  bribe-giver,  marked  with  purple  metal — 
Cut  in  your  naked  contentment  there  shows 

On  the  curve  of  your  breast  one  carven  petal 
From  heaven's  impenetrable  rose! 

You  open  the  window  to  myriad  windows, 
The  high  triangular  door  of  the  world  .   .   . 

Till  the  walls  and  the  roofs  and  the  curious 

keystone, 
The  carven  rose  with  its  petals  uncurled, 


38  SPECTRA 


Are  swayed  in  the  swathe  of  the  uppermost 

ether, 
Where  stars  are  the  columns  upholding  a 

dome, 

And  the  edifice  rolls  on  a  corner  of  ocean, 
Lifts  on  a  wave,  poises  on  foam  .  .  . 

We  stand  on  the  rose,  we  are  images  golden, 

We  move  interchanging,  attaining  one  crest: 
One  chin  and  one  mouth  and  one  nose  and  one 

forehead, 

One  mouth  and  one  chin  and  one  neck  and 
one  breast  .   .   . 

I  pull  you  apart  from  me,  struggle  to  bind  you, 

I  free  you,  I  rend  you  in  seven  great  rays  .  .  . 

And  we  cling  to  them   all  ...  but  we  lose 

them,  and  slowly — 

We  slip  with  the  rainbow  down  the  blue 
bays. 


SPECTRA  39 


ANNE  KNISH 

OpUS    122 

T  TPSTAIRS  there  lies  a  sodden  thing 
l^J      Sleeping. 
Soon  it  will  come  down 
And  drink  coffee. 

I  shall  h^vG  to  smile  at  it  across  the  table. 
How  can  I  ? 

For  I  know  that  at  this  moment 
It  sleeps  without  a  sign  of  life ;  it  is  as  good  as 

dead. 

I  will  not  consort  with  reformed  corpses, 
I  the  life-lover,  I  the  abundant. 
I  have  known  living  only; 
I  will  not  acknowledge  kinship  with  death. 
White  graves  or  black,  linen  or  porphyry, 
Are  all  one  to  me. 
And  yet,  on  the  Lybian  plains 
Where  dust  is  blown, 
A  king  once 

Built  of  baked  clay  and  bulls  of  bronze 
A  tomb  that  makes  me  waver. 


40  SPECTRA 


EMANUEL  MORGAN 
Opus  46 

1ONLY  know  that  you  are  given  me 
For  my  delight. 
No  other  angle  finishes  my  soul 
But  you,  you  white. 

I  know  that  I  am  given  you, 

Black  whirl  to  white, 
To  lift  the  seven  colors  up  ... 

Focus  of  light! 


SPECTRA  41 


ANNE  KNISH 
Opus  i 

REITERATION!  .   .  . 

The  seconds  bob  by, 

So  many,  so  many, 

Each  ugly  in  its  own  way 

As  raw  meats  are  all  ugly. 

Why  do  we  feed  on  the  dead? 

Or  would  at  least  it  were  with  cries  and  lust 

Of  slaying  our  human  food 

Beneath  a  cannibal  sun ! 

But  these  old  corpses  of  alien  creatures  1  .  . 

I  loathe  them ! 

And  too  many  heads  go  by  the  window, 

All  alien — 

Filers  of  saws,  doubtless, 

Or  lechers 

Or  Sabbath-keepers. 

Morality  comes  from  God. 

He  was  busy. 


42  SPECTRA 


He  forgot  to  make  beauty. 

Why  does  he  not  call  back  into  their  hen-house 

This  ugly  straggling  flock  of  seconds 

That  trail  by 

With  pin-feathers  showing? 


SPECTRA  43 


EMANUEL  MORGAN 
Opus  55 

WHY  ask  it  of  me? — the  impossible! — 
Shall  I  pick  up  the  lightning  in  my 

hand? 

Have  I  not  given  homages  too  well 
For  words  to  understand? — 

Words  take  you  from  me,  bring  you  back  again, 
Dance  in  our  presence,  cover  your  proud  face 

With  the  incredible  counterpane, 
Break  our  embrace  .  .  . 

No,  not  to  you 

Your  wish, 
But  to  some  kangaroo 

Or  cuttle-fish 

Or  octopus  or  eagle  or  tarantula 

Or  elephant  or  dove 
Or  some  peninsula 

Let  me  speak  love — 


44  SPECTRA 


Or  call  some  battle  or  some  temple-bell 

Or  many-curving  pine 
Or  some  cool  truth-containing  well 

Or  thin  cathedral — mine  I 


SPECTRA  45 


ANNE  KNISH 
Opus  200 

IF  I  should  enter  to  his  chamber 
And  suddenly  touch  him, 
Would  he  fade  to  a  thin  mist, 
Or  glow  into  a  fire-ball, 
Or  burst  like  a  punctured  light-globe? 
It  is  impossible  that  he  would  merely  yawn  and 

rub 
And  say—    "What  is  it?" 


46  SPECTRA 


EMANUEL  MORGAN 
Opus  17 

MAN-THUNDER,  woman-lightning, 
Rumble,  gleam; 
Refusal, 
Scream. 

Needles  and  pins  of  pain 

All  pointed  the  same  way; 
Parellel  lines  of  pain 

When  the  lips  are  gray 

And  know  not  what  they  say : 
Rain, 
Rain. 

But  after  the  whirl  of  fright 
And  great  shouts  and  flashes, 
The  pounding  clashes 
And  deep  slashes, 
After  the  scattered  ashes 


SPECTRA  47 


Of  the  night, 
Heaven's  height 

Abashes 

With  a  gleam  through  unknown  lashes 
Of  delicious  points  of  light. 


48  SPECTRA 


ANNE  KNISH 
Opus 


THE  black  bark  of  a  dog 
Made  patterns  against  the  night. 
And  little  leaves  flute-noted  across  the  moon. 

I  seemed  to  feel  your  soft  looks 
Steal  across  that  quiet  evening  room 
Where  once  our  souls  spoke,  long  ago. 

For  that  was  of  a  vastness; 
And  this  night  is  of  a  vastness  .   .   . 

There  was  a  dog-bark  then  — 
It  was  the  sound 

Of  my  rebellious  and  incredulous  heart. 
Its  patterns  twined  about  the  stars 
And  drew  them  down 
And  devoured  them. 


SPECTRA  49 


EMANUEL  MORGAN 

Opus  45 

AN  angel,  bringing  incense,  prays 
Forever  in  that  tree  .   .   . 
I  go  blind  still  when  the  locust  sways 
Those  honey-domes  for  me. 

All  the  fragrances  of  dew,  O  angel,  are  there, 
The  myrrhic  rapture  of  young  hair, 

The  lips  of  lust; 

And  all  the  stenches  of  dust, 
Even  the  palm  and  the  fingers  of  a  hand  burnt 
bare 

With  a  curling  sweet-smelling  crust, 
And  the  bitter  staleness  of  old  hair, 

Powder  on  a  withering  bust  .    .   r 

The  moon  came  through  the  window  to  our 

bed. 

And  the  shadows  of  the  locust-tree 
On  your  white  sweet  body  made  of  me, 
Of  my  lips,  a  drunken  bee.  .   .   . 


50  SPECTRA 


O  tree-like  Spring,  O  blossoming  days, 

I,  who  some  day  shall  be  dead, 

Shall  have  ever  a  lover  to  sway  with  me. 

For  when  my  face  decays 

And  the  earth  moulds  in  my  nostrils,  shall 

there  not  be 

The  breath  therein  of  a  locust-tree, 
The  seed,  the  shoot  of  a  locust-tree, 
The  honey-domes  of  a  locust-tree, 
Till  lovers  go  blind  and  sway  with  me? — 

O  tree-like  Spring,  O  blossomy  days, 
To  sway  as  long  as  the  locust  sways  I 


SPECTRA  51 


EMANUEL  MORGAN 

Opus  14 

BESIDE  the  brink  of  dream 
I    had   put    out   my   willow-roots    and 

leaves 
As  by  a  stream 

Too  narrow  for  the  invading  greaves 
Of  Rome  in  her  trireme  .   .   . 
Then  you  came — like  a  scream 
Of  beeves. 


52  SPECTRA 


ANNE  KNISH 
Opus  80 

OH  my  little  house  of  glass ! 
How  carefully 
I  have  planted  shrubbery 
To  plume  before  your  transparency. 
Light  is  too  amorous  of  you, 
Transfusing  through  and  through 
Your  panes  with  an  effulgence  never  new. 
Sometimes 

I  am  terribly  tempted 
To  throw  the  stones  myself. 


SPECTRA  53 


EMANUEL  MORGAN 
Opus  i 

T  I  iHEY  enter  with  long  trailing  of  shadowy 
J.       cloth, 

And  each  with  one  hand  praying  in  the  air, 
And  the  softness  of  their  garments  is  the  gray- 
ness  of  a  moth — 
The  lost  and  broken  night-moth  of  despair. 

And  they  keep  a  wounded  distance 

With  following  bare  feet, 
A  distance  Isadoran — 

And  the  dark  moons  beat 
Their  drums. 

More  desolate  than  they  are  Isadora  stands, 
The  blaze  of  the  sun  on  her  grief; 

The  stars  of  a  willow  are  in  both  her  hands, 
And  her  heart  is  the  shape  of  a  leaf. 

And  they  come  to  her  for  comfort 
And  her  black-thrown  hair 


54  SPECTRA 


Is  a  harp  of  consolation 
Singing  anthems  in  the  air. 

With  the  dark  she  wrestles,  daring  alone, 
Though  their  young  arms  would  aid; 

Her    body    wreathes    and    brightens,    never 

thrown, 
Unvanquished,  unafraid  .    .    . 

Till  light  comes  leaping 

On  little  children's  feet, 
Comes  leaping  Isadoran — 

And  the  white  stars  beat 
Their  drums. 


SPECTRA  55 


ANNE  KNISH 
Opus  19$ 

HER  soul  was  freckled 
Like  the  bald  head 
Of  a  jaundiced  Jewish  banker. 
Her  fair  and  featurous  face 
Writhed  like 

An  albino  boa-constrictor. 
She  thought  she  resembled  the  Mona  Lisa. 
This  demonstrates  the  futility  of  thinking. 


56  SPECTRA 


EMANUEL  MORGAN 
Opus  6 

IF  I  were  only  dafter 
I  might  be  making  hymns 
To  the  liquor  of  your  laughter 
And  the  lacquer  of  your  limbs, 

But  you  turn  across  the  table 

A  telescope  of  eyes, 
And  it  lights  a  Russian  sable 

Running  circles  in  the  skies.  .  , 

Till  I  go  running  after, 
Obeying  all  your  whims — 

For  the  liquor  of  your  laughter 
And  the  lacquer  of  your  limbs. 


SPECTRA  57 


EMANUEL  MORGAN 
Opus  9 

WHEN  frogs'  legs  on  a  plate  are  brought 
to  me 

As  though  I  were  divinity  in  France, 
I  feel  as  God  would  feel  were  He  to  see 
Imperial  Russians  dance. 

These  people's  thoughts  and  gestures  and  con 
cerns 

Move  like  a  Russian  ballet  made  of  eggs; 
A  bright-smirched  canvas  heaven  heaves  and 

burns 
Above  their  arms  and  legs. 

Society  hops  this  way  and  that,  well-taught; 

But  while  I  watch,  in  cloudy  state, 
I  feel  as  God  would  feel  if  he  were  brought 

Frogs'  legs  on  a  plate. 


SPECTRA 


ANNE  KNISH 
Opus  187 

1DO  not  know  very  much, 
But  I  know  this — 
That  the  storms  of  contempt  that  sweep  over 

us, 

Ready  to  blast  any  edifice  before  then 
Rise  from  the  fathomless  maelstrom 
Of  contempt  for  ourselves. 
If  there  be  a  god, 
May  he  preserve  me 
From  striking  with  these  lightnings 
Those  whom  I  love. 

Saying  which, 
Zarathustra  strolled  on 
Down  Fifth  Avenue. 

The  last  three  lines 
Are  symptomatic. 


SPECTRA  59 


EMANUEL  MORGAN 
Opus  104 

OW  terrible  to  entertain  a  lunatic! 
To  keep  his  earnestness  from  coming 
close ! 


H 


A  Madagascar  land-crab  once 
Lifted  blue  claws  at  me 
And  rattled  long  black  eyes 
That  would  have  got  me 
Had  I  not  been  gay. 


60  SPECTRA 


ANNE  KNISH 
Opus  182 

HE'S  the  remnant  of  a  suit  that  has  been 
drowned ; 

That's  what  decided  me,"  said  Clarice. 
"And  so  I  married  him. 
I  really  wanted  a  merman; 
And  this  slimy  quality  in  him 
Won  me. 

No  one  forbade  the  banns. 
Ergo — will  you  love  me?" 


SPECTRA  61 


EMANUEL  MORGAN 

Opus  1 01 

HE  not  only  plays 
One  note 

But  holds  another  note 
Away  from  it — 
As  a  lover 
Lifts 

A  waft  of  hair 
From  loved  eyes. 

The  piano  shivers, 
When  he  touches  it, 
And  the  leg  shines. 


62  SPECTRA 


ANNE  KNISH 
Opus  181 

SKEPTICAL  cat, 
Calm  your  eyes,  and  come  to  me. 
For  long  ago,  in  some  palmed  forest, 
I  too  felt  claws  curling 
Within  my  fingers  .   .   . 
Moons  wax  and  wane; 
My  eyes,  too,  once  narrowed  and  widened  . 
Why  do  you  shrink  back? 
Come  to  me :  let  me  pat  you — 
Come,  vast-eyed  one  .   .   . 
Or  I  will  spring  upon  you 
And  with  steel-hook  fingers 
Tear  you  limb  from  limb.  .   .   . 

There  were  twins  in  my  cradle.  .   .   . 


SPECTRA  63 


EMANUEL  MORGAN 

Opus  78 

I  AM  beset  by  liking  so  many  people. 
What  can  I  do  but  hide  my  face  away? — 
Lest,  looking  up  in  love,  I  see  no  eyes  or  lids 
In  the  gleaming  whirl  of  clay, 
Lest,  reaching  for  the  fingers  of  love, 
I  know  not  which  are  they, 
Lest  the  dear-lipped  multitude, 
Kissing  me,  choke  me  dead ! — 

O  green  eyes  in  the  breakers, 

White  heave  unquieted, 

What  can  I  do  but  dive  again,  again — again — 

To  hide  my  head! 


64  SPECTRA 


ANNE  KNISH 
Opus  135 

IN  a  tomb  of  Argolis, 
Under  an  arch  of  great  stones, 
Where  my  eyes  were  sightless,  groping, 
I  touched  this  figment  of  clay. 

Forgotten  vase  of  immemorial  Greece, 
Colorless  form! 

I  have  entered  to  the  blind  dark 
Of  the  tomb  where  you  have  slept  forever 
And  with  the  dreams  of  my  importunate  hands 
I  touch  you  in  the  profound  darkness. 

You  are  cold  and  estranged ; 
Yet  the  ends  of  my  fingers  cling  to  your  porous 

surface. 

You  are  thin  and  very  tall ; 
My  palm  can  cover  your  mouth. 
Your  lip  curves  but  a  little ; 
Around  your  throat 
My  two  hands  meet, 


SPECTRA  65 


And  then  part  as  I  follow  the  swelling 
Rhythm  that  downward  widens, 
And  I  pass  around  and  under, 
And  the  returning  line 
Ebbs  home. 

Beneath  your  feet  I  touch  cold  marble; 
My  hand  returns 
To  sleep  upon  your  breast 
Dreaming  it  warm. 


66  SPECTRA 


EMANUEL  MORGAN 
Opus  79 

ONLY  the  wise  can  see  me  in  the  mist, 
For  only  lovers  know  that  I  am  here 
After  his  piping,  shall  the  organist 
Be  portly  and  appear? 

Pew  after  pew, 

Wave  after  wave  .  .  . 
Shall  the  digger  dig  and  then  undo 

His  own  dear  grave? 

Hear  me  in  the  playing 

Of  a  big  brass  band  .   .  . 
See  me,  straying 

With  children  hand  in  hand  ... 

Smell  me,  a  dead  fish  .   .   . 

Taste  me,  a  rotten  tree.  .  .  . 
Someday  touch  me,  all  you  wish, 

In  the  wide  sea. 


UNIVERSITY    OF    CALIFORNIA 
BRANCH    OF    THE    COLLEGE    OF    AGRICULTURE 

THIS  BOOK  IS  DUE  ON  THE  LAST  DATE 
STAMPED  BELOW 


5m-8,'26 


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110 

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LIBRARY,  BRANCH  OF  THE  COLLEGE  OF  AGRICULTURE 


